The Vegas Rerun

Chapter 1

MOLLY

The clatter of dishes and the hum of conversation fill the air and blends with the distant jingle of slot machines and the occasional eruption of cheers from the casino floor. Caesar’s Palace is always alive, always buzzing, and yet, in the middle of all that chaos, I notice him.

Tall, dark, and ridiculously handsome, his square jaw sporting a dusting of designer stubble, and his deep blue eyes sparkling under the lights.

He’s sitting at a round table with a group of guys who all look to be a similar age to him – I would say late twenties to early thirties if I had to put a number on it.

The men are all laughing too loudly and drinking too much. A stag party, clearly, something we get all too often here. At least this party isn’t one of the ones who thinks it’s ok to grope the waitstaff so there’s that.

Unlike the others, who are already three sheets to the wind – tall, dark and handsome is exceptionally composed, almost indulgent.

Leaning back in his chair with an amused smile he watches his friends’ drunken antics.

His black suit jacket is draped over the back of his chair, his crisp white shirt slightly unbuttoned at the collar.

He exudes confidence, but it’s not arrogant. It’s effortless.

And fuck, is it sexy. I can’t stop looking at him.

“Hey, earth to Molly,” a voice says loudly beside me.

I blink, snapping my head toward Carla, my coworker, who is balancing a tray of margaritas on one hand and looking at me with knowing eyes.

“You’re staring,” she says, sounding tickled rather than annoyed.

“I’m observing,” I correct her when she returns from delivering the tray of drinks. “I’m just making sure they don’t get too rowdy.”

“Sure you are,” she says, giving me a knowing smile before sashaying off to another table.

I roll my eyes, but she’s not wrong. I am staring, but only because something about him draws me in.

His presence is magnetic, and when he turns his gaze toward me, my stomach does a little flip.

His lips curve into a smirk, as if he caught me looking.

Fuck.

I grab my notepad from my apron. Forcing myself to go into professional mode, I walk over to their table, my pen poised above my notepad.

“What can I get you guys?” I ask, with a professional smile.

His friends rattle off their orders. More whiskey, tequila shots, another round of beers. I jot them down quickly, and just when I think I can escape, his voice stops me in my tracks.

“And what’s your name?” he asks.

The sound of his voice makes my clit pulse, and I try to ignore the feeling, but it’s hard.

If he can do that to me just by speaking to me, imagine what he could do with me if the room was empty and I was naked, laid out on a table with him standing over me.

I blink away the fantasy, hoping my sudden embarrassment isn’t clear on my face.

I glance up, meeting his eyes. He’s smiling, waiting for an answer, and my pulse picks up. I could brush him off, play the professional card. But something about him makes me want to play along. And really, what harm can it do to tell him my name?

“Molly,” I say, tilting my head. “And yours?”

“Joshua,” he says. He leans forward slightly, resting his arms on the table. “When they called you Molly, they had no idea how glamourous you would turn out to be.”

From anyone else, the line would have been the ultimate cheesy pick-up line, but somehow, coming from Joshua it sounds different, like it is worth considering. Nevertheless, a laugh escapes me before I can stop it. “Oh, you’re smooth, aren’t you?”

“I’m going to take that as a compliment,” he says, his smile widening.

I shake my head, scribbling down the last of their order.

“Your drinks will be right out,” I say, addressing the whole table and getting a cheer from the others.

As I turn to walk away, I can feel his eyes on me, and for the first time in a long time, I enjoy the attention, and if I put a little extra wiggle of my ass into my steps, well, that’s not exactly a crime is it.

The rest of my shift passes in a blur, but every time I glance toward his table, I find him watching me.

It’s an unspoken game we’re playing, a silent flirtation that lingers in the air between us, filling it with an electric charge that sparks only for us.

By the time they settle their bill and head off towards the casino, I realize I’m disappointed.

And that’s a dangerous thing.

I don’t do this. I don’t get attached to anonymous flirty customers who will be gone by the morning.

I’ve seen too many girls fall into that trap, thinking they’re special, only to be left with nothing but a memory of a hot night with a stranger and a receipt from the bar.

And that’s if they’re lucky. The unlucky ones end up with a broken heart or needing a trip to the clinic.

But tonight, as I finally clock out and head up to my room, I wish things were different.

Tonight is my night off.

I went for dinner with a couple of the other waitresses who were off work too and then came back to my room. I was tempted to go and have a drink in the bar, but I knew it would be obvious why and I didn’t want to be teased by the other staff, so I decided against it.

I kind of regret that decision now.

I’ve just woken up and I’m still lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, wondering what tall, dark and handsome is doing.

If he’s thinking about me the way I’m thinking about him.

I could have made a move last night or the night before.

I could have gone to the bar for one drink before bed.

Or I could have slipped him my number, given him something to remember me by.

The idea of giving him my number sticks in my head like an itch I can’t scratch, because I realize it’s still possible.

I sit up, my heart racing. I know his room number.

He paid with a card, and I saw it on the till when I closed out his tab, and yes, I remembered it.

Not because I was planning on going there or anything.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I grab a piece of paper and a pen, and I think for a moment and then I shoot my shot, scribbling the note.

Joshua,

I know this is a little bold, but I couldn’t stop thinking about you. If you’re interested, here’s my number,

Molly X

I debate adding ‘your waitress’ in brackets after my name, then decide against it. If he doesn’t know who I am by my name, then he doesn’t get to spend the night with me. I do have some self-respect.

I add my cell phone number to the bottom of the paper and then I stare at the note for a long moment, my heart thudding wildly in my chest. Am I really doing this? This isn’t me. I don’t chase after men.

But something about him makes me want to break my own rules.

Before I lose my nerve, I get up and get ready, and then I slip out of my room, go down in the elevator and walk along the hallway to his room.

The resort is quiet now, most of the guests either asleep or still gambling away their money downstairs.

I reach his door, hesitate for only a second, then slide the note underneath it.

My heart is still racing when I get back to my room. I sit on the edge of my bed, staring at my phone, waiting. Hoping. Nothing. I try not to lose hope. It doesn’t mean he doesn’t want to see me, it could mean he’s out for breakfast, or he’s still asleep.

I don’t know how much time passes, but I have almost given up hope when my cell phone vibrates. I’m instantly awake, sitting up and grabbing my cell phone. I have a text from an unknown number, and I get goosebumps on my skin as I open the message.

Hey, I think you might have the wrong room. We just checked in.

I freeze. My stomach drops and I feel like kicking myself. Fucking hell. I left it too late.

I flop back onto the bed, groaning into my pillow.

This is why I don’t take risks. Because when I do, they backfire spectacularly.

The only thing that saves me from having a total meltdown from embarrassment is that Joshua and his friends are gone and it’s not like he got my note and rejected me and now I have to see him again.

But Joshua is gone. My shift this afternoon is going to be a lot less enjoyable than my last few shifts have been.